


The Thing That Eats

by hangingfire



Category: Confessions of Dorian Gray, The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Body Horror, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Extremely niche crossover in fact, Gen, Highly specific crossover, Horror, White dudes ruin everything, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28063980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangingfire/pseuds/hangingfire
Summary: A hundred and seventy years after the disastrous Franklin Expedition, an intelligent woman is burdened with the shenanigans of immortal dilettante and bad-decision-dinosaur Dorian Gray. He's in over his head again and doesn't know it. But what else is new?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Thing That Eats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chillydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown/gifts).



> "Maliktau'mahhlu tuurngarmut. Maliujut. Iqqunani maliinnaujautitut. Angatkunnii'ngaaqtunnguq. Nirisuuq pisukpaktuq pangalirataa'mahhlu."
> 
> _"...And with Tuunbaq behind them. Behind them, coming. Always coming ... From the shamans. The thing that eats on two legs and four."_
> 
> — _The Terror_ , Episode 1, "Go For Broke"

I love a good historical mystery. Perhaps it’s the fact that I am one: the inspiration behind Oscar Wilde’s novel. I am a sandbar under the surface of the river that is only betrayed by the eddies and currents around it. Also, I am easily bored, and actual archaeology was a new thing to do. So I attached myself to a venture that included a number of Canadian and British archaeologists who were going to explore the newly discovered wrecks of HMS _Terror_ and _Erebus_ , and that’s how I found myself spending the summer of 2017 in a research encampment near Terror Bay on King William Island, Nunavut, Canada.

That whole Franklin business happened before my time, but it’s not like I wasn’t aware. I saw an amateur staging of that awful play Dickens wrote that was loosely based on it, and I read the thing where he excoriates what’s-his-name for bringing back the survival cannibalism stories. Good old Charles, going full racist, implying that the savages of the north must have attacked poor Franklin’s men. No, the real cannibals were the friends we made along the way. Or something like that.

Anyway, I couldn’t miss the to-do when they discovered the wrecks. Also, that was a part of the world I hadn’t visited before. I’m good at cooking the books and manufacturing the credentials I need for most things—you have to be, when you’re me—and so I got my papers in order and off I went.

Within a fortnight I was bored to death.

The weather that summer was foul and that made it difficult to get the research vessels on the water. We tried to do as much work as we could on shore, cleaning up and documenting things from previous expeditions, but it was mostly busy work. The only real highlight of that situation was Linda. Linda Takkiruq, a Gjoa Haven native who’d gone off to university for anthropology and climate science, gotten her PhD, and came back to study her ancestors. Whip-smart, funny, and, yes, very pretty. We got to be friends, though when I tried to get a little further along, she put me right off. Still, no point in getting offended. She was the most worthwhile person to talk to in the place.

* * *

One night Linda and I were having a drink and swapping stories and tall tales, me twitchy and restless in the midnight sun, she accustomed to it but also bored.

“Some people say there’s a curse,” she said. “That once folks started messing around with the _qablunaat_ ships, they unleashed a pack of evil spirits, and they’ve caused an uptick in accidental deaths, illness, whatever the hell.”

“And is there a curse?” I asked.

She snorted. “There’s no curse around here that’s worse than a couple centuries worth of racism, poverty, and indigenous oppression,” she said.

There wasn’t much I could say to that.

She leaned back on the ground and looked up at the sky. “Tell you a story,” she said. “My ancestors were shamans— _angatkut_ ,” she said. “My grandma told me stories she’d got from her grandma, on and on back, all the way back to the first _qablunaat_ encounters, and before that too. According to the family lore, our line was joined for centuries with a particularly powerful _tuurngaq_ —“

“A what? What’s that when it’s at home?”

“ _Tuurngaq_. A shaman’s helper spirit. Supposedly this was one of the greatest, most dangerous ones ever seen on this island: a _nanurluk_ , a giant bear, sent by the sea-goddess Nuliajuk herself to my ancestors. _Nirisuuq pisukpaktuq pangalirataa'mahhlu_ —‘that which eats on two legs and four’. It was cunning and clever, and when it killed an enemy, it didn’t just slay his body—it consumed his soul. And as long as the _tuurngaq_ and its shaman were in balance, so was the island.

“There was an _angatkuq_ in the 1830s and 1840s who was killed by the _qablunaat_. Might’ve been Ross’s men or Franklin’s or one of the parties who came after—all you white guys look alike, after all. The story goes that one of the _qablunaat_ tried to save him, but he died, and the others disrespected the body and angered the _tuurngaq_. The _angatkuq_ ’s daughter was supposed to inherit his duties and his bond to the spirit, but it would not heed her; it refused her sacrifices and ran wild, and the caribou and fish and seals all vanished. Without an _angatkuq_ , the _tuurngaq_ was vulnerable to the _qablunaat_ , and in their fear of it, they destroyed it. The daughter went into exile, and the balance of the island has never really been the same since.”

I squirmed a little. “I apologise on behalf of my countrymen—“

She looked me in the eye and raised a middle finger. “Fuck you and fuck them and the boats they rode in on.” She lit a cigarette and was quiet for a long time, and then she said, “They say that the _tuurngaq_ was part spirit and part flesh, held together by the powers of the _angatkuq_ , and its bones are still somewhere out here. Some of the elders say they’ve seen signs, omens of something …” She broke off.

I waited for her to go on, but she clearly wasn’t willing to elaborate, and the look on her face suggested that she thought she’d said too much. “So are you going to go look for it?” I asked after a moment.

She gave me a withering look. “Of course not. And it’s not just because I'm pretty sure the story is like, ninety percent metaphor. It’s because it’s not my place. I was never meant to be an _angatkuq_. All I've got are the stories and some songs my grandma taught me when I was a little girl. Sorry, Dorian. Not going to be your aboriginal spirit guide so you can go all Man Called Horse on me.” She stood up and finished the last of her drink, and gave me a salute. “See you in the morning, sunshine. Don’t let the midnight sun drive you crazy.” With that, off she went to her tent.

* * *

Now, Linda might not have been interested in looking for supernatural relics, but if you think I was going to forget about it—well, you obviously haven’t been listening, have you? I started volunteering for the field work more and more—any job that involved going out into the wilderness to look for things while we were waiting for the seas to calm enough to get the boats out.

Three weeks after Linda told me the story about her ancestors, she and I went out on a hike to photograph a site that had shown up as an interesting anomaly on a recent drone flyover. The truth was, I’d rather have gone alone, but we weren’t allowed to, so I’d rather have had Linda along than anyone else. After all, I didn’t know what I was going to do if I found what I was looking for, and having a descendant of shamans could only help. Surely.

In the afternoon we reached the site, and got to work.

Sometimes I wonder if we were meant to find it. Is that arrogant of me? I mean, I don't know how people before us missed it; it must have been covered by snow and ice and weather in just the right way, or maybe someone buried it? Anyway, when I spotted something smooth and pale in the dirt, too regular in shape for a rock—even though we were only supposed to take pictures, I bent down and started digging. Soon I’d uncovered it—part of it, anyway—a massive skull, nearly as big as my own torso. The teeth were still sharp; I nicked my finger on one, and a few drops of blood landed on the skull.

“The hell have you got there?” Linda asked, having apparently materialised behind me out of thin air. “Bear skull?”

“Does this look like a normal bear to you?”

She knelt down and cleared some more dirt away. “No. No, it’s—it’s gotta be something else. This isn’t—it’s too big.”

The day was one of mixed clouds and sun, and just then a cloud passed over the sun.

“Maybe it’s your—your _tuunbaq_ ,” I said, and I knew I was pronouncing it wrong, but what can I say, Inuktitut isn’t my strong suit.

“You stupid colonialist piece of shit,” she breathed. “No. We gotta leave it alone. I’m going to get someone who understands these things to come out here and take a look.”

That was when I noticed the fog. Arctic fog, rolling in from all directions, thick and heavy. The fog in that country is luminous and strange, and it seems to deaden sound. In minutes, that was all we could see, in all directions.

Linda, meanwhile, was trying to bury the skull again, and in doing so, sliced open her palm on one of the teeth. And then she sprang back with a cry of alarm.

Something began to push its way out of the earth. The skull first. Then backbone and pelvis and legs. Ancient rusted chains fell away as ligaments and tendons and nerves grew along the bones like vines, sprouting organs and muscles and skin. Still looking half-flayed, the creature reared up in front of us. I suppose you’d call it a bear. But it was twice as big as any polar bear I’d ever seen. It opened its gory mouth and let out a roar that made every bone in my body shake. The creature fixed its human-like eyes on me and then it _lunged_.

I didn’t have time to get out of the way. Its claws raked my body and I couldn’t even scream—it ripped me open like a bin bag and knocked me to the ground all at once. I could feel it tearing at me with its teeth, and there was a sickening pop as it pulled my right leg right out of the socket and threw it away somewhere. Through the blinding pain, I wondered vaguely if I’d have to grow a new one, or if I’d have to crawl across ground and get it back so it would reattach.

Suddenly the _tuurngaq_ reared back with a snort that I swear sounded like indignation. Or perhaps horror? It nosed around in my insides for a moment, then backed away, like it couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I thought, oh, were you looking for my soul? If so, joke’s on you, bear spirit—my soul is … elsewhere.

I heard Linda’s voice then, and despite the agony as my body slowly began to pull itself back together, I turned to see her reaching out her hand, calling out to the _tuurngaq_. It began walking toward her. She was singing something that sounded like a lullaby for a child. She was clearly terrified, but she stood her ground as it stopped in front of her and sniffed her fingers like a cat.

It opened its mouth, and she closed her eyes—I could see her shaking all the way from where I lay—but she kept singing softly to it, and she didn’t stop singing until its jaws closed on her hand with a snap. Even then, she only inhaled sharply, like a scream in reverse, and then the _tuurngaq_ bowed its huge head before her. Its skin finished knitting itself together, and thick white fur began to sprout all over its body.

Linda’s hand was bleeding freely. I thought the creature had bitten it off, but it had only taken off three of her fingers with shocking precision. She laid what was left of her hand on its head, and it made a sound that was felt rather than heard. It reared up again, turned on its hind legs, shook out its fresh and gleaming white pelt, and loped away, every movement saying that it was the creature that owned the place.

Linda fell down in a dead faint.

Me—well, my own organs were still slithering back into place. My ribcage mended, the peritoneum stitched itself up over intestines, stomach, and liver. Muscles and skin resettled themselves. And I was still missing a leg. I did have to crawl after it, and watch the nerves and blood vessels and other stringy bits join back up, pulling the femur back into the hip socket, and that hurt a lot more than I would have expected.

By the time I was whole again, Linda was still out. I went to her and began bandaging up her hand, and slowly she began to wake up.

She stared at me, bewildered.

“It killed you,” she said.

“Knocked me down,” I answered.

“No, it—god damn it, Dorian, I saw it rip you right open—“

“We can talk about it later. Your hand—“

“Fuck my hand,” she snapped, and pushed me away. She staggered to her feet. “And fuck you. I have to get back to town and talk to the elders. Get me back to the fucking camp.”

* * *

I don’t know what she told the rest of the crew, but no one asked me any questions and I wasn’t going to tell any lies. Linda returned to town in a helicopter, and I stayed at the research camp for another week. Sometimes in the distance I saw something huge and predatory moving on the horizon, and the Inuit members of the team were at once subdued and jumpy, but they wouldn’t talk about it—and I started getting something like the old ”cut sublime” treatment. So when the next supply run left, I went with it. I was already planning to move on, though I figured I’d try to see Linda one more time before I left.

I found her at the house that she shared with one of the other archaeologists. When she answered the door, I was almost surprised by how well she looked, and how solemn. Just above her shirt collar, I could see a couple of animal-hide twine cords that I knew she’d never worn before.

“You,” she said.

“Me,” I said.

She sighed. “Come inside. Let’s get this overwith.”

I went in and shut the door behind me. She didn’t invite me to sit down.

“The only reason I’m telling you anything is because you were there. I’ve probably already talked too much, starting when I told you the other night—that we knew something was coming. I guess it turned out to be the _nanurluk_. Whether it’s because of your dumbassery, or whether we just happened to be there at the right time—don’t know. Doesn’t matter.” She was quiet, going distant for a moment before coming back to the present. “But we think it’s because we need it now. The Arctic’s warming, the planet’s out of whack, and if we ever needed protection here, now’s the time. And lucky me—it took my sacrifice—” she held up her maimed hand, “so now I have a whole lot to learn about rituals that were last done by a several-times-great uncle nearly two hundred years ago.”

“Well. Um. Congratulations?”

She snorted. “I’ll take that for exactly what it’s worth,” she said, and it was clear from her face that it was worth nothing to her. She took a step towards me and jabbed her finger toward the middle of my chest. “Look, Dorian Gray. As far as it’s concerned, and as far as I’m concerned? You’re the monster, not it. I know you’re telling everyone that it knocked you down, but there’s not a scratch or bruise on you, and I know what I saw. You cannot gaslight me into believing otherwise. There’s a big black hole where your soul ought to be, even more than’s usual for a white man. So you need to get the fuck off my island.”

I backed away from her. Honestly, I was frightened, though I was trying as hard as I could to not let on. “I was planning on it,” I said.

“Great.” She folded her arms and looked at me steadily. “Plane leaves for the mainland tonight. If you hurry, you can get on it and I don’t have to see your sorry face anymore.”

I did hurry.

That evening, as the plane flew over King William Island on its way back to the mainland, I looked down. For just a moment, I thought I saw it—a rough beast slouching across the harsh land. I felt a chill and glanced away, and when I looked back again, it was gone. The plane shuddered sharply from a crosswind; it dipped sickeningly then levelled off.

You don’t have to tell me again, I thought. I’m out.

**Author's Note:**

> The urge to write this extremely specific crossover for [chillydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown) was too strong to resist. Per the prompt injunction to feel free to ignore the series finale, this does indeed ignore pretty much all of S5 because, well, I still haven't listened to it. Hopefully despite this deficiency, this delivers on Dorian being his classic jerkass self as he gets into and causes trouble with his usual aplomb.
> 
> I have leaned heavily on [Knud Rasmussen's _The Netsilik Eskimos: Social Life and Spiritual Culture_](https://digital.library.yorku.ca/yul-840102/netsilik-eskimos-social-life-and-spiritual-culture#page/1/mode/2up) and [Listening to Our Past](http://www.traditional-knowledge.ca/english/default.php) in an attempt to ensure that any gross liberties I've taken are no more gross than Dan Simmons's and no more liberal than Dave Kajganich and Soo Hugh's, and I apologize for any overstepping in that regard. Many thanks to [willowbilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbilly) for being an incredible resource on the Nattilingmiutut dialogue in _The Terror_ , and to Kota for the beta-read and the super-helpful comments.
> 
> [Yuletide reveal post](https://hangingfire.tumblr.com/post/639148712851062784), for anyone interested.


End file.
